


in the ever-winding tracks, hope has wandered

by sterlingseamstress



Category: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon, The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: F/M, Not Beta Read, Pre-Canon, Prophetic Visions, Runes, Time Travel, at least for Outlander, gisela lives au, this is the weirdest crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sterlingseamstress/pseuds/sterlingseamstress
Summary: As the due date for her fourth child draws near, Gisela fears the worst. Wyrd had only told her of Uhtred having three children, and her prophecy had never failed her yet. But the tapestry of wyrd is far too complex for one woman to know her path, and hers is one that would have never been expected. So when a haunted hill draws her in, and spits her out in a strange Wessex far different from the one she recalls, Gisela is sure she's died. Only, the babe in her belly is still responding, and this is an England just as lively--or perhaps more lively--than the one of Alfred's dreams. Still clinging to some sort of hope for the world she once knew, she heads north in search of Caer Ligualid, but her path takes her much further indeed.
Relationships: Gisela & Finan, Gisela/Uhtred of Bebbanburg
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. The Farewell

"I promise," His sword-calloused hands enveloped hers, and Gisela, despite the kicks of her child and her heavy shoulders, smiled, "on my oath, we will go home." 

A salty breeze swept up from the Temes. The air on her arms and neck rose in response to the sudden damp chill, but her smile didn't waver. Home was as far away for her as it was for him, far north from this estuary, but that was not what weighed on her. No, this would be their last night in a while. "Let's go to bed, my love." Gisela tugged on his hands lightly. In just her serk, the terrace of the riverside home would always be too drafty. "You can tell me of our futures when my feet do not ache." 

"I should be asking you our futures." Uhtred smiled, but he followed her urging tugs indoors.

"The future isn't always forthcoming." Gisela winked over her shoulder. Their room was blissfully close, and soon enough, Gisela had her back on the bed and her feet in her husband's lap, having their aches and pains massaged away. Just the warmth of the room was a help, but she surely wouldn't be protesting. It meant more time with Uhtred, although the children would surely wriggle their way to their room through the night. "Tell me of Bebbanburg." She said after silence set in. Gisela pulled one of the blankets over her while he spoke. 

His eyes were miles away, either at his home or already planning for Æscengum, Gisela couldn't tell, but his words came in the way they always did. Bebbanburg: the fortress on the sea. It had never been taken, but it would fall soon, for his men would take it. He’d make her a queen, just as he’d made her brother a king. They’d not mention the madness setting into Guthred’s mind, nor the fact that Guthred had not been a leader, it was she and Abbot Eadred who’d maintained his seat while he was a slave. The rhythm of the words and rumble of Uhtred’s voiced lulled her to relax, at least so the grimace she made whenever he spoke of Wyrd faded. 

She’d never respond with the words that had weighed on her since Osebert’s birth. From the first cycle she’d missed of her pregnancy, all knowledge of her future said she was on borrowed time, and that all Gisela was waiting on was Hel’s call.

It would come soon.

So, she enjoyed the warmth of her husband’s body. By the dipping of their feather mattress, he now laid down, one arm draped over her. As a mercy to him, Gisela shared her blanket and snuggled close, listening to his slow breaths. Before her own sleep came, the other side of the mattress dipped near her feet. She cracked her eye open to see her daughter, dark hair tousled from sleep, crawling up beside her.

“Come here, baby.” Gisela smiled, stretching an arm out to the young girl, “A mara again?”

Stiorra shook her head. “Red was shouting.” The girl snuggled close, tucking herself beneath Gisela’s arm, so her shoulder was a pillow.

“So, he had the mara?” Gisela pressed a kiss to her forehead, “Why didn’t you wake him? He’s been having them more often.” She would not get a response from the young girl, who had fallen asleep as quickly as her father. Gisela, stuck beneath two heavy sleepers, closed her eyes with a small prayer that a mara would not ride her tonight as well. 

* * *

It was still dark when she woke. The ever-active child within her was sparring some invisible beast, or at least it felt like that. Groaning, Gisela untangled herself from Uhtred, Stiorra, and the latest arrival of Osbert, careful to not wake any of them. Once the blanket was placed over all of them once more, with a kiss pressed to both Stiorra and Osebert’s temples, she got dressed.   
With one glance back at her sleeping kin, she smiled. Uhtred was still sleeping soundly, and she knew he didn’t rest enough on campaign. Gisela slipped into the courtyard.

Finan was already up and about, gathering everything they’d need for the trip. He nodded her way, and she approached, taking up some of the work.

“Can’t sleep?” She asked. The packs on Uhtred’s mare were packed strangely, so she rearranged them into a far more stable situation.

The Irishman laughed, the lilting noise echoing across the stones of the house. “Aye, Ethne got tired of my tossing about.” He inspected his seax before sheathing it. “Babe keeping you awake?”

“Always.” She rubbed her stomach gently. At least now that she was up, the babe had calmed down somewhat. Gisela wasn’t sure if she preferred being pummeled from the inside or the anxiety filled stillness. With a child so undeniably alive, all she could wonder was what tragedy awaited them. “Will you take care of Uhtred for me?” Dark eyes met the irishman’s wild ones, and he must have seen through her, since he took her arm and gently led her to a seat. He could always see the worry.

“What did the runes say, lady?”

She sighed, leaning into him. “I’m not sure yet.” Gisela picked at some of the fluff rising on her deeply colored kirtle. “So, take care of him.”

“Have ye prepared anything?” Finan knew her far too well after over a decade, and she nodded in response.

“The maids know, no matter what happens, to blame childbirth.” Gisela murmured, “It’s what he’ll expect, and I can’t have him chasing revenge. Not with the children to worry about.”

Finan squeezed her knee gently. “Don’t give in to what a bunch of sticks tell ye.” And then, he was back on his nimble feet and back to work making the final preparations. Three hundred men would be riding out of Lundene, and the men she most cared for would be leaving as well. Uhtred was awake now with the grey light just before dawn, speaking to one of the warriors that manned the house’s walls. Cerdic didn’t look happy, but he couldn’t speak against his sworn lord’s orders.

Only once Cerdic stepped aside with slumped shoulders did Gisela stand and approach her husband. Finan’s words still bounced around, going against every inkling she’d gathered about wyrd, but he was right about one thing: there was no use in worrying, fate’s path would happen, whether she liked it or no.

“Come back quickly,” Gisela cupped Uhtred’s face in her hands, smiling up at him. “Are the little ones still asleep?”

“Like logs,” He grinned, bending down to press his lips against hers. She tried to memorize the scratch of his beard against her face, the scent of pine smoke on his clothes, the way he felt against her. “I’ll bring back something nice for the babe.” He whispered against her lips, and then his all-encompassing warmth was gone, and soon, so were he and his men. 

* * *

“My lady.” A maid approached behind her, but Gisela, in the midst of winding the warp for another cloth, still stared at the gate. Maybe if she willed it, Alfred would release Uhtred from his fighting quickly, but the door remained shut. Gisela had hardly been able to focus for a week. “We’ve no dyes for the cloth.” 

Gisela hummed, dragging her eyes once more to her work. This would also need to be dyed, and waiting until later in the season would mean fewer dyestuffs to draw from. “Is there still that birch grove outside the burh?” 

The maid gripped her arm, her face pale. “But my lady, the ghosts.” Her green eyes were wide, and the grip on Gisela’s arm was tight, but the maid freed one hand to touch the wooden cross at her throat. 

“They say this home has ghosts as well.” Gisela replied, gesturing around. It was why most Saxons had settled outside the roman walls, after all. “Have they bothered us? All it takes is being respectful.” She wound the next loop of warp, giving the tablets a turn afterwards to secure it in place. “It’s the right time for birch leaves. They’ll make a nice yellow for young Uhtred’s trousers.” 

Gisela continued winding the wool for a while, weighing out the options with her lips pressed together. Being a good lady came before her desire to stay home and send others to go for her. Besides, some physicians had told her exercise was good for a baby. Maybe she’d get a full night’s rest for her troubles. 

“You will not have to go, if you fear the dead so.” Gisela stood, stepping away from the frame. “I’ll take Cerdic, you can finish the warp.”

The maid smiled at her, taking up the ball of yarn to continue at the frame as soon as Gisela brushed past. 

Gisela squinted up at the sky. The clouds were heavy and dark, but that would be the weather for much of this season, she couldn’t let it get to her. “Cerdic!” Gisela called, already in motion. One hand grasped a cloak she’d woven for Uhtred that he’d forgotten to take with him, and she used a brooch to clasp it around her shoulders. Though she’d wrapped her neck in beads earlier in the day, she made no move to remove the silver and gems, putting them back in the chests could waste ever-precious summer daylight.

The warrior jumped to attention from where he sat listlessly on the wall. Guarding the home was far less interesting than killing raiding Danes--even if she and Uhtred were Danes themselves. Still, at least the warrior had the thought to ask, “Where are we going?” 

“Just beyond Lundene.” She straightened out her clothes once more, “We’ll be back before sunset, but could you prepare the horses?” 

The wind tugged at her hair and cloak as she plucked leaves from the trees, her basket slowly filling. Gisela glanced down the hill, where Cerdic stood with the horses. For some reason she could not fathom, he’d worn a maille shirt on this excursion. He had to be melting, standing out there in those layers of wool and the metal. The raiders weren’t possibly near Lundene yet, so there should have been nothing to worry about. 

The Danish woman rolled her eyes, trudging further up the hill. If memory served her right, there were bushes of gooseberries further up, which the children would adore with honey. When the low branches of brush caught on her skirt, she tugged them free to continue her search. The wind howled behind her, pushing her on. If this was normal weather in this area, no wonder people thought it haunted. 

She paused to remove a strand of amber from around her neck and place it on the ground, just in case. Landvættr would prefer food, but she hadn’t packed any to offer. From the feeling around her--the air seemed to hum with the same energy that warned of visions--she knew this was no normal spot of land, but Gisela pressed on with the wind at her back. 

The buzzing grew louder. As she glanced around for a swarm of bees, she noticed stones that didn’t quite belong in the landscape. Definitely a place of landvættr, then, but no sign of bees. She finally saw the bush of gooseberries, the perfect midsummer treat. Gisela rushed forward, and the buzz grew to the roar of a sea storm, crashing in her ears so loud the world began to spin. Or was she the one spinning? 

The world fell out from beneath her, and Gisela fell into the bone road. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Diana gets to make up Craig na Dun, I'm going to make up my own London spot to make this work.
> 
> Also, thank you all for checking out the crossover that nobody asked for! I'm not editing very much as I write, but I've got an outline at least, and I'll be posting as I complete things! Hopefully, I can manage a chapter a week, but with classes starting up, who knows?


	2. Not in Lundene Anymore

Hel was brighter than she expected. When the world returned to Gisela, all she could do was shade her eyes, for the day she’d returned to was much brighter than the clouds pregnant with rain she remembered. This sky barely had any Frigg-spun clouds at all. Sun-warmed grass cushioned her spine, and Gisela laid back on the ground, sighing. 

When her hand grazed over her belly, the replying kick was her first hint. Wouldn’t Hel separate the two? Her other hand flew to her throat, digging beneath the shawl—now too warm for the sunny day around her—to find all the jewelry she’d been wearing still present, save for one. The orb from Gotland was missing from its setting at her throat. 

Her brows furrowed, and ever so slowly she stood. Gisela’s body was heavy and stiff. It reminded her of the time she’d tried to run away, and her father’s horse had thrown her from its saddle. 

“Cerdic?” She called, pain and the baby her only hope that this was the land she’d left behind, that maybe she’d merely fallen. The wind was certainly gone; Gisela was no longer inexorably pushed further up the hill. Instead, she skidded down the hill and through the grove that was so close, but so slightly _ different _ from the grove she remembered from moments before. The grove was oddly lacking the jingle of maille and the fidgeting of horses. 

“Cerdic?” Gisela called again, quieter now. “Cerdic, if you’re trying to startle me to get back at Uhtred, so help me I will—” The trees at the base of the hill parted before her, and she was met with a much closer city than she remembered. The walls her husband had repaired from the roman base were gone. Instead, closely packed, taller buildings of brick, wattle, and daub stood. 

This was not  _ her _ Lundene. 

Although every inch of her screamed to turn back and see if the hill might take her back, curiosity drew her towards the city. It was much larger—and louder—than the Lundene she’d left behind, sped along by streets much more filled with people than she recalled. Everyone dressed strangely. Women topped their hair with mushroom caps and had bodies shaped into impossibly inhuman cones, like a fir flipped upside down. At the hips, the cones flared out sharper and wider than Gisela had seen before, even on the least endowed women in the streets. Men's coats puffed out their chests like ducks, with many who were far too young gone prematurely grey with strange, rolled hair. And the hose— _ the hose _ —hugged the calves and ankles tighter than even the most careful wrap of winnegas.

This wasn’t Hel, they had to be some sort of elf. 

Compared to them in her loose kirtle and cloak, she was underdressed, and received the stares rightfully for it. Gisela tried to listen for what they said, but while this language sounded like the Saxon tongue, only one in five words made sense to her. Wide eyed, she glanced around, now frightfully aware of her loose hair and plain clothes. They had to be speaking of her, right? 

A man called out, and Gisela froze, but his eyes were on the crowd as a whole, a hand gesturing to a basket of fish beside him. His hair was thankfully still brown, face worn in the way of fishermen’s always were. That familiarity, thawed her fear away, and Gisela continued down the busy, cobbled street. 

There were more multi-storied buildings in this Lundene, casting many shadows across the far better drained streets. Inns might have had two stories if one were lucky, but many buildings here had three, even four or five rows of windows up their fronts. Gisela kept stopping and staring up at the stone marvels, even though it earned her more than the standard jostling and a rude word that she most certainly understood. She shot back with a short “schitan” and continued down the road, peering into glass shop windows (a luxury reserved for Alfred’s Cathedrals) to see the wares for sale. 

The answer to the inhumanly wide hips soon followed. In one shop, one that was clearly some form of clothing supplier, rib-like cages and rolls of fabric tied around various, vaguely feminine statues. Some even hung off the walls like a rack of ribs ready for smoking. Her eyes widened, and she scurried down the street.

“What a waste of materials.” Gisela clucked, shaking her head at the earth. Soon, she’d made her way to the banks of the Temes. Carefully, she sat near the edge of the stone wall that kept the street from the river, and dangled one foot over the edge. 

The river still smelled of salt, although garbage now floated past, foul-smelling in the summer heat. The boats on the river were different from the ships of Alfred’s makeshift navy and fishermen, although Gisela had never been as involved in the maritime to know what differed other than the shapes of sails. Uhtred would’ve been able to give her an evening long description of the differences, possibly even down to how the anchors were shaped. The thought brought a pang to Gisela’s chest.    
  


“Gods, Gefjun, Frigg…” She murmured the names she most often reached out to, those of the home and protectors of women, “please, guide me home.” Beneath her cloak, her fingers gripped the empty necklace from Gotland. Perhaps it had been her payment for coming here, but if that were the case she’d need another to return. The silver pressed uncomfortably into her palm, but she sat there with her eyes squeezed shut, as though the pain pricking in her flesh and will could bring her home, but when her eyes opened once more, the strange Lundene still spread before her with a cacophony of Saxon that was just not quite the language she remembered enough that she could not understand it. Her shoulders slumped. 

“**** *** like help?” A deep, round voice asked, and Gisela’s eyes shot to the man now squatting beside her. As with the others, his clothes were very odd, and she could see his undershirt from where his tunic didn’t cover his chest—a rather unmanly thing, if she were to say anything he could understand. 

Gisela smiled wanly, “Thank you, but I know the way back.” At least in the general way, she could find her way back to the hill. Even though Gisela had nothing to offer, she needed to return to her children. Young Uhtred, if he were suffering from what she thought he was, would need her, as she’d needed her mother. Finan and Uhtred were wonderful with the children, but they’d never understand her eldest. 

The man’s wine-dark eyes narrowed at her, brows furrowing while he puzzled through her words. At least the people here were having the same issue she did. Still, despite her refusal, he offered her a hand. 

Standing up would indeed be an issue, with her legs hanging over the wall of the Temes. Gisela took his hand, feeling that they were much softer than the ones she was used to. Even wealthy men, like her husband, had some form of work to roughen them. Alfred’s hands had been the softest she’d experienced, until now. This man had never seen a hard day’s labor in his life, despite the prematurely white hair atop his head. 

Was that a fashion, like the wasteful false hips and duck coats? 

“Thank you.” Gisela pulled her hand from his, stepping away. 

The stranger swept his upper body down, his hand over his chest. He said something in a honeyed voice, but by then Gisela was already backing away, her face hot. She ought to be no lady here, and there were fine men bowing before her. She ducked into the closest alley, her feet and face burning while she followed the path she’d taken towards the vættr’s hill. 

The path was easy, despite the seeming changes in the city some things remained the same. All Gisela had to do was dodge the occasional chamber pot and clothesline, and soon enough she was back in the main road she’d entered the city in. This time, somehow, it was even more clogged with people, horse-drawn boxes carting people up and down the all too narrow street. The voices of everyone piled so close and echoing off stone buildings pierced her mind, and Gisela soon ducked back into an alley, her eyes snapping shut to close it all out. 

She leaned against the wall, pressing one palm flat into the cool stone. Hewn as smoothly as the stones that made her home, Gisela could pretend it was the wall of the old roman home on the banks of the Temes, and her children would come along laughing and tugging at her skirt at any moment. 

There was a laugh, but it was far too deep for any of her offspring. 

Gisela’s eyes shot open, and she looked towards the source of the laugh: the same fine man with his flour-white hair blocked off the entrance to the alley, one hand slipped into a hole in his trousers. One look into those wine-dark eyes shot a chill through her veins, and Gisela wrapped one arm over her stomach. 

“Stay back.” She warned, easing herself off the wall and slowly backing down the dark, muck-filled alley. Something oozed into her shoe, slimy and wet. Gisela looked at his shoes. They were odd, smoother at the bottom than hers; if a chase ensued, he’d have trouble gaining traction.    
  
He stalked forward, the tails of his coat swaying back and forth like the tail of a fox. And Gisela was the hen, from the gleam in his eyes. His voice was a low rumble, more growl than intelligible speech. 

Gisela whirled around, bolting for the opposite end of the alley. The narrow shadowed pavement was slick with scum and garbage; her run was half-sliding and half controlled strides. Her blood roared. Or was it the grey man? She gripped the edge of a house, using that momentum to swing her around a sharp turn. The clack of his strange elevated shoes only got louder. 

Once again she was in that convent, hiding from a marriage fate did not intend for her. Only now she was slammed into a wall instead of dragged to an altar. Gisela grimaced, scraping through her mind for what Hardacnut had taught her. The man pressed into her, his breath rancid in the air by her face. 

He hissed something in her ear, but Gisela was already in motion. Her heel stomped down into his foot. He leaned back, giving her the opening she needed. Gisela slammed her head back and up. The crunch and ensuing cry assured her that she’d done it right, even after a decade. The grey man staggered back, freeing her from the wall. 

Gisela pushed past him, sparing only one pitying glance at the scarlet blood gushing from his nose. Then, she was racing back through the alley, the stench of garbage catching in her lungs. Half-running and half-falling, she staggered back into the road gasping for air and clutching her stomach. As long as her baby was safe. Her only taste of home in this foreign world. 

Home. 

Gisela straightened, tucking loose hairs behind her ear before eyeing the people around. Only the barest glance was spared for her--with the evening now falling, everyone was more preoccupied with the business of the day. Good. She shook a bit of alley muck from the hem of her kirtle--the rest would require drying and scraping off, if not a good wash--and plucked up the path that she’d taken from the hill. She didn’t wonder any more at this new land. As wondrous as the surface level wealth and ability to waste materials, it was tainted with muck. 

She saw it now. Dark-skinned people her husband had once employed as equals now bowed and scraped for flour-haired men. Few held their heads high. Women leaning on corners, offering their wares. That was a profession that would never disappear, but Gisela hoped they had the resources to care for illness and their children. 

* * *

Clutching her cloak close, she rushed towards the hill, never minding the fact that her scum-slickened turnshoes made climbing the grass more effort than before. Every ell-wand’s length forward, she slid at least a foot backwards, and Gisela had to dig her feet into the slick grass to stay upright. 

“Gods damn, fucking…” Gisela growled, grabbing a tree to hold her in place while she caught her breath. The hill was tucked into some sort of park in the city, which at least gave her a bit of privacy. She slipped off the slippery leather shoes, and stood for a moment to get used to the lack of them. Her hose and nalbinded socks at least had some traction, with the raised hairs of the wool bound to find something to grip on.

By this time, the sky was aflame, and Gisela paused to look as the sun turned the Temes to a river of fire and the city blacker than soot. Her lips spread into a soft smile at the sight. At Coccham, this had been her favorite time to sit on the dock, her spindle always caught before it could kiss circles into the surface of the golden waters. Uhtred would join her some days, other times she’d need to be quick, or her son’s toy would be swept downstream. 

Gisela breathed in the salty breeze that swept up the hill, her eyes fluttering back to the peak of the hill. Once again, there was that thread tugging her up, and she obeyed. Gisela hoisted up her skirt, letting brush scrape against her hose and skin instead of holding her back, while the birch trees around her turned to a wood of silver and gold. This was a place of myths, and Gisela did not belong in the ancient place. 

As she passed the stone markers though, the buzz of bees did not come. Her blood did not roar with the primal notion of something far greater than her being present; all Gisela was left with was the wind carrying whispers from the city to push her forward. 

There laid her basket, still on its side and spilling leaves like blood. 

Gisela knelt beside it, her fingers twining into the grass. “Take me home.” She whispered. “Whichever one of you brought me here, please.” The trees overhead laughed in response, devoid of animals to chatter along. Now, even the wind was gone, and the circle was far too quiet. 

“Please.” Her voice cracked in the midst of uttering the word. Without another gem, or a sacrifice, would the hill awake? Gisela had nothing with which to offer but blood, and that was far too precious. Evening came with a deathly chill, and all she could do was stare at the unanswering earth. 

Her cheeks prickled, tears slipping from her eyes. Gisela clutched her stomach, curling in to protect the last bit of home she had. Shoulders shaking, she silenced sobs with sniffles, all the while the presence of the hill wrapped darkness around her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The biggest fun was trying to picture mid 18th century clothes through the eyes of someone whose ideas of foundation garments are a strophium and serk. It'll be fun to play with these things more, especially as she slowly gets a handle of the new form of English. 
> 
> And then hoo boy, right when she gets used to one language, I throw another at her. Some of these titles will be drawn from episode titles of the Outlander show, but it'll be a few chapters to get Gisela to where she needs to go.


	3. Chapter 3

Itchy and dry eyes fluttered open to the moon high in the sky. Gisela grimaced, her mouth and throat drier than the hay harvest, and pushed herself upright despite the weary protestations of her limbs. While night birds went about their hunts, she did not look around this time, merely rubbed dry eyes with the back of her hand. The other adjusted the cloak around her shoulders, shifting the brooch from the middle of her chest to the shoulder, so she’d have one arm free without having to shrug back the double layer of wool.

The fresh taste of rain hung in the air, but none yet fell from the sky. Gisela stood, taking account of what she had: two necklaces, the items that lived eternally in her belt pouch, a basket, and the clothes on her back. A frown crossed her face, but the sharp pang of hunger soon became the more pressing issue. Gisela crouched, feeling for the gooseberries from her basket. Her nimble fingers slipped through knifelike leaves, plucking whatever felt round from her disorganized gathering.

Emptying the basket would be the next thing on her list: she’d need something to store proper provisions in.

Once one palm was filled with berries, Gisela tilted them into her mouth, chewing quickly. Each one was a burst of tart sweetness, her face pinched at the sudden rush of moisture to her gullet. But when swallowing, she reached out to find more anyway. Not eating because of disliking the food she had would be the death for both her and the baby.

Gisela paused then, looking down at her rounded stomach. She smoothed one hand over it, a weary smile coming to her face. “I’ll find a place for us, little one. I’ll take us home.”

Home. The home at Lundene was gone, and Coccham had been empty since Osbert’s birth, but perhaps there was a trace of one of her homes north. Caer Ligualid had been the longest home, even shadowed by pain and madness. Guthred—gods, what had become of him?—had followed the same path of their mother. Still, it was the closest to home she could think of.

“I’ll take us to my brother’s kingdom, there must be something there.” Gisela murmured, then popped more berries into her mouth. She grimaced through the sour taste, before upending the rest of her basket’s contents on the earth. “There,” The Dane scowled at the hill, “You may get your fill, for there is no more of my pain I will offer.”

Finan would call her as mad as her brother, if he saw her like this. Finan was a world away.

She marched down the hill, sticks stabbing into the bottom of her hose-clad feet. It was too dark to find her shoes wherever she left them, so Gisela marched on. The stab and crack of branches, accompanied by language so foul that would have caused Beocca to go pale and scold her, soon filled the silence of the witching hour as the moon lit a path into the blackened city.

Swears soon fell to grumbles, then silence as she walked down the street, the once bustling city devoid of life beyond the raucous laughter of drunkards and the moans of a couple in the alley. Gisela smiled as she passed. Certain things never changed, taverns and brothels being one of them for sure.

Her eyes fell upon a clothesline in one of the alleys, with clothes still hanging up. After glancing around and seeing no one about, she sidled into the side street, mindful to not step in any of the puddles—without her shoes, that would be a far less pleasant experience. She hopped over the last one, before glancing around once more. The window had no light shining in it, and no one walked past.

The clothes of this new world were quickly torn from the line and shoved into Gisela’s basket. Before stopping to take account of how it all fit together, she hurried out to the main street, hardly sparing a glance back for the poor woman whose clothes she’d nicked. Clothes were worth gold, no matter the time or place, and Gisela needed it to blend in somehow.

Blending in had been her armor for so long, she couldn’t bear having the eyes of strangers upon her anymore. In Caer Ligualid, she stood back and let Eadred be the face of rule, dressed so plainly that Uhtred had thought her a nun at first. Wessex was similar, where she did not wear her Danish heritage as proudly as her husband did. Cumbraland had been different from Northumbraland, Gisela didn’t see the reason for such difference between the two tribes. Even the faiths could coexist.

On silent slippered feet, she hurried out of the grimy, stone Lundene with hardly even a glance for the ghosts. Maybe the Lord of Mercia or one of the later kings had finally exorcised the city, and that why Lundene was one city, and not two as she remembered. Gisela slipped and skidded across the paved streets, the basket clutched close to her belly.

“Gefjun lend me your strength.” One hand gripping the basket, her fingers fluttered to the amulet around her neck. The bone was worn smooth from so many years. It had protected her through three pregnancies and all the danger that followed her husband. Gisela merely hoped her gods still held power here.

As an answer, dark clouds shadowed the moon. A few steps later, a fat drop of rain splashed upon the tip of her nose. She sighed. Gisela pulled her shawl closer, speeding up her already long paces. Finan had always joked about her walking about like a lord about to give a speech to rile up her troops; she’d always laughed at the thought. The long, gliding steps were merely the most efficient way to run about without causing undue stress for her maids.

He’d have something to say to brighten the night.

With no stars visible between the quickening rain and clouds, Gisela used the Temes to start her journey. It marked the south, and all she needed to do was keep it behind her and vaguely to the sinister side of her. For the first time since Stiorra was two, she walked deliberately away from the salty breeze. The whale-road called to her. Her heart yearned for the sea, but home would have the sea, too. And Roman ruins, if the town had not grown too large.

What had become of the people she loved?

Gisela shook the question away with an idle hand, trudging on through tall grasses and muddy patches of earth. The chilly rain seeped into her bones. Her fingers grew numb, and her feet were cold without her usual many layers of socks. But the slowly soaking through wool of her shawl and kirtle did what wool did best: stayed warm.

Only when dawn came did Gisela stop, finding shelter in a small grove of evergreens. With no farms in sight and far from the road, it was the best place, if at all, to take stock of the treasures she’d stolen. Gisela overturned the basket, letting bundled up cloth fall unceremoniously on the carpet of grass and needles.

Awkwardly, she crouched down to sift through the items: two serks of linen so fine it was nearly sheer, a strange tube of fabric with ties attached to the front and back, pleated into a band of some sorts—honestly, how did these people manage to use so much fabric?—and a jacket that reminded Gisela of a warrior’s coat. The tan wool was thoroughly fulled, promising warmth and less worry of necessary repairs, though the cloth itself was soft with wear. The tube-like item, likely a skirt, showed much more signs of wear. Patched with colorful scraps along the sides, it had clearly gotten caught and torn on something many times. Her nose crinkled at the work done to fix it, the stitches all too big and the mending far more obvious than she would have done.

Then again, she’d had the time and wardrobe to take her time on repairs.

There were small things too, a kerchief and cap. The cap was non-negotiable, a necessary evil to maintain the cleanliness of her presently soaked hair. On the road, she’d not be able to maintain the same routine she had in Lundene. Gisela had no washbasin, no nice soap of tallow and lye to scrub her skin clean. Ashes would be much easier to find, but there would be no help in cleaning her hair.

Gisela frowned, slowly pulling her kirtle off over her head. The wool had become three times heavier with the rain that came down even now. But, blending in was worth a few minutes of discomfort as she changed.

Gooseflesh rose…everywhere as she stripped from one filthy serk into a clean one. The style was utterly different from the fashions she was familiar with. For one, the neckline was wide, nearly slipping from her narrow shoulders. The woman she’d robbed had been much brawnier than she, for the garment billowed even in the sleeves so short they barely came to her elbow.

Oh, she’d have to get her hands upon a sewing kit soon.

The skirt was much more of a challenge to put on. Though the ties were easy enough, her calves were uncovered save for hose from how high Gisela had to tie the skirt in order to work around her belly. Then, the warrior’s coat. The rain rolled off it, a blessed reprieve after a night of being drenched. She pulled it tight about herself and used her brooch to secure it, the oval brooch looking startlingly out of place upon the dun fabric.

With much less care she tossed on the linen cap that soaked through in seconds, and wrapped the shawl around her once more. Rain still beat against the ground, but she felt much warmer. Slightly uncomfortable, with the fine linen clinging to her damp body, but warm.

Gisela picked up the basket once more, her kirtle and serk neatly folded within, and found north once again. Weariness and rain would not bring her to stop, not as grey light settled upon the green earth.

Her feet ached. Her legs burned. Not for the first time that day did Gisela think of stopping to thrust her feet into an icy puddle or nap beneath a tree. But the rain was cold, and the dark sky showed no sign of clearing.

This was the weather Pyrlig had described when complaining about his wife, the grey his excuse for never bringing her from Wales. Gisela had often wondered how the man—once a hero, a great and famous warrior—managed to detest his wife so. But it was impossible to get a word in without his flirting, and Gisela grinned and bore it. Now, she’d grin and bear clouds as dark as the robes of Alfred’s priests.

Gisela trudged on, her memory’s path leading her back to a road.

The day had gone on long enough it had to have been time for most folk’s work to be drawing to a close, and the road has the slow, steady trail of horses and fellow voyagers like her to confirm it. Gisela fell in step beside a man in a wide brimmed felt hat, who whistled a cheerful tune. In one hand, he held a snake-like bit of wood, with the head of the beast shaped into a bowl.

Every now and then, he’d pause in his tune to bring the contraption to his lips. His chest—already puffed out like a duck’s—expanded, and after a moment he exhaled a plume of wyrm’s smoke.

Her eyes widened. He glanced her way and uttered something in their not-quite-english tongue. She looked away, face burning. Not having ever realizing it, she’d been staring. But at least he hadn’t possessed that silly, prematurely grey hair of the men of Lundene. While his hair was similarly oddly styled, with rolls of sausage adorning the sides of his head and the back put into a thin braid, the black hair helped the smiling man looking young. Gisela estimated him to be around Osferth’s age.

He’d offered her the wooden serpent, she realized. “Na, thank you.” She raised her hand lightly in refusal, her brows drawing together. She didn’t even know what the thing was, let alone desire to taste whatever caused the foul-smelling wyrm’s breath exhaled by the man walking beside her.

He nodded, thankfully understanding her words. “Ah, sorry my lady. ’S not for everyone.” He said. At least, that was what Gisela thought he said. If she focused closely enough, she could hear just enough cognates to understand, with a few traces of the latin she’d just begun to learn from the Abbess Hild in her spare time.

Gisela walked beside him in silence, before placing one hand on her belly and letting her brows pinch together. Making her discomfort obvious would perhaps help in what she wished to say. “Is there a place I can find something to eat, and a bed, maybe?”

His brows shot up. Alas, there would be much more work to do in learning how these people spoke. But with a town coming into view, Gisela had her answer: the tavern. A necessity to every town, even in this day. Her lips spread into a relieved grin.

“Thank you,” She said to the man again, her long strides quickening towards the building. The sign itself was unintelligible to her, so used to the scribblings of priests in their ever-changing spellings, but times had changed. And so had writing. But a cup could never be mistaken, and so she stepped inside. 

Though the clothes were different, and the tables, instead of being boards set upon a trestle, were like taller benches, drinking never changed. The air was thick with the smell of bready ales and smoke, and heavy with the boisterous chatter of working men, hlaflords, and artisans alike. The lines of class were drawn by materials and richness of color. Wealthier men, Gisela noted, were more likely to have that prematurely grey hair she’d already begun to loathe.

Reddened faces paid her no mind as she waddled—for by now her feet felt entirely worn away and her thighs burned from the moisture of the day causing her skin to chafe. Tears half-sprung to her eyes when she finally, blessedly got to sit. Gisela closed her mouth, feeling it dry and caked with dust from the last leg of the trip. Her stomach felt like a cavernous hole, not enthused at all by the meager meals of berries she’d given it.

Once, that might have been all she’d eaten, and felt full for two days, but the wealth of her husband and the stability of Wessex had cured her of that problem.

She looked about, soaking in the mundane differences between her home and the new world. Men raised cuts of salt pork to their lips not with their hands or a knife, but with a miniature pichfork in their hands, the prongs pointed down instead of the up for optimal hay shoveling. Or rather, in this case, food shoveling. Her brows furrowed. Their odd coats and kerchiefs were already beginning to feel mundane, but each time she thought she might have seen it all, something new was discovered. One man reached through the fabric of his coat to pull out a metallic disk. It was rounded on both sides, with a buckle towards the top of it.

There’d been a woman from her home who went on pilgrimage to a holy site far, far from Cumberland. She’d returned with a grin, two pairs of shoes with the soles worn utterly through, and a holy item: a mirror. With the mirror—which she’d confessed to spending a fortune on—she’d captured the image of the holy site and closed the lid, so it could never escape. Gisela remembered begging for her to open it, so she could see what was worth walking so far to see, even though Eadred claimed Jehovah was all around. She had always been refused, of course, because opening the item would release the image of the site and replace it with another.

The holy mirror had been the same size and shape of that item.

Thus, when the man opened it, frowning at that which he saw, Gisela’s stomach dropped. Her breathing was labored and not from the smoke. She leapt to her feet and quickly shut it, remembering how Sexburh had wept at the loss of the item when the Gaels had razed their town. “My lord!” She whispered harshly, looking wide into his sickly green eyes.

His face, bloated and blotchy from however much time he’d spent in the tavern, twisted into a snarl. Roughened hands tore hers away from the silver rondel, and he growled something Gisela didn’t understand. He clicked open the precious item once more, and Gisela looked inside, despite knowing the image was already lost from the mirror.

It wasn’t a mirror. She wasn’t sure what it was. Two arrows pointed towards numbers she recalled from Alfred’s books on the romans, arrayed in a circle around the ivory face. A smaller bar twitched in an inexorable circle around the center.

“Sorry, lord.” Gisela murmured, stumbling back to her seat. Her mind whirred at the wonderment of what it had been, for it was still something utterly precious, with how the man glared at her now as he tucked the silver rondel away once more. Alfred had spent months, once, attempting to find a standard way of measuring the time between masses. The sun was the best tell of time there was, she’d told him, but Alfred insisted that time was important, even when the sun was down. Perhaps someone had succeeded in that, after all.

The man huffed, stomping away now that her attention was elsewhere, and Gisela soon sat with her head resting on the table. In the Two Cranes, it would not have taken so long for someone to come see what she wanted. But this wasn’t that wonderful place, and she did think it wonderful, no matter her grumblings over Uhtred not having told her it was a brothel. The beds were warm and the food surprisingly good for a place of business that made better coin on distracting from food and drink than it did selling the stuff.

“Madam?” A soft, reedy voice asked. Gisela didn’t know the word, but it was still clearly a way of gaining her attention. She lifted her head, blinking at the young girl who stood before her. She was just about Stiorra’s age, and the memory of her little spark sent a pang through her. Gods above, all she wished for was to see Stiorra’s wicked smile again. She must be so, so scared with no one to comfort her through her nightmares.

The girl’s lips moved again, but Gisela’s attention went to a low stage she’d not noticed before. A man and an odd lyre were now there, and he spun quick-paced music from it with a stick, holding the lyre between his shoulder and jaw.

“Ah, a beer and food, please.” Gisela took one of the silver necklaces from her neck, quickly breaking off a section of links and dropping them in the girl’s outstretched palm.

Dark brown eyes went from her face, to the silver, then back to her again, and the girl frowned. She shook her head, gesturing towards one of the other tables, where another, older girl—surely her sister, for they shared the same auburn hair and freckles—took coins from a weary looking fellow.

Gisela’s only coins were in the Lundene she’d left behind, and she doubted anyone would take Alfred’s pennies. Sighing, she pointed to the chain. “It’s silver. I have no coins, but it should be enough.”

The speed of the skald’s playing grew, and with it the vivacity of the chatter around her. It seemed impossible to communicate with the girl through all the interfering noice, but she tried, pointing between the coins and the chain. It had to be comparable. But the little girl dropped the chain on the table and scurried away, leaving Gisela with a still dry mouth and even emptier stomach. She pressed her hand to her belly, taking comfort, at least, in the responding movement from her baby.

A few men had started dancing along to the quick-paced song, others providing a (slightly off) beat with the slap of a hand on the table or stomp of the heeled foot. Something glimmered at the musician’s feet, within an overturned hat of well-fulled wool. As the whirling song drew to a close, Gisela got to see just what caused the glint, as two dancers tossed two of the very things she lacked into the cap: coins.

Gisela might have found her key to supper.

She waited until the musician was nearing to a close, spending her time scavenging off neighboring tables’ leftovers as the musician played on and on. Occasionally, folks would know the tune he played and sing along with bawdy lyrics. Gisela joined in on clapping, a smile spreading across her lips.

[insert bawdy tune she can keep up with here]

At the end of the set, she slid from her chair, worming her way through the crowd with care to not bump into others too roughly. The air close to the stage was stiflingly hot from the close-packed bodies and hearth, the air sickly with the stench of sweaty bodies closely packed amongst one another.

She grimaced, but finally pressed towards the front. The musician finally removed his stick from the curvy lyre, setting both safely in a similarly shaped case. He emptied his cap into a leather purse, then set the triangular piece upon his head.

“You play prettily.” Gisela attempted the odd pronunciation that made these folk so hard to understand. When the man smiled, the youth finally shining through his face, she let out a sigh of relief. It hadn’t taken utter silence for others to understand her now. Languages had ever been her strong suit, speaking both the language of Saxons and Danes since childhood.

“I thank you, madam.” The musician ducked his head, flushing.

She didn’t have much to offer him, but Gisela held out the bit of chain the little girl had refused. “Here,” Gisela’s lips spread into a tentative smile, “silver. For the happiness.” Art was the best gift one could give in the darkest times, and he’d brought joyful songs in the worst time for her. Three days in a new world, and she only had the vaguest idea of where to go, what to do. But a bit of happy music was a worthwhile distraction.

Then, she stepped upon the stage. Eyes were of course drawn to her, a lone woman who ought not be in a tavern like this in her stage of pregnancy. She shouldn’t be alone at all, but what ought to happen clearly was not a worry to whatever had drawn her here, to this strange not-Englaland that she now stood in.

Gisela offered the eyes a reedy smile, setting her shoulders back and resisting the urge to place a protective hand over her stomach. Let them look. Words all too familiar spilled from her tongue in a gentle melody. Skalds always let the rhythm and illusion of their words capture the attention, but that was not what would pass in this day, she gathered. Luckily, this was a melody she’d come up with long ago, singing the tale to Young Uhtred in the summers where she couldn’t sleep and he fussed.

Oft him anhaga

are gebideð,

metudes miltse,

þeah þe he modcearig

geond lagulade

longe sceolde

hreran mid hondum

hrimcealde sæ

wadan wræclastas.

Wyrd bið ful aræd

The musician caught onto the melody and rhythm of the well-worn poem—her husband’s favorite—and soon began to play quietly along, while she let the basket rest at her feet. Gisela prayed the tune and her belly would bring enough charity into the hearts of men to provide just enough for her supper.

Gisela pressed on, her voice growing louder with confidence.

_Oft ic sceolde ana_

_uhtna gehwylce_

_mine ceare cwiþan._

_Nis nu cwicra nan_

_þe ic him modsefan_

_minne durre_

_sweotule asecgan._

Gisela was transported to nights on the terrace in London, her legs dangling over the side to be closer to the water. Daringly, her spindle hung over the Temes, where one strong gust might break her thread, but she’d always lived by a river or sea, no daring wind or the call of the wild hunt could dissuade her from drinking in the salt-filled air of her kinfolk.

Uhtred joined her, always first to bring a warmer shawl, or encase her in the firelike warmth he radiated. Gods, she’d nearly started to call him (SABA’s byname). He asked about her day.

Gisela always started with whatever milestones the children had made. While he rebuilt the city’s defenses, Gisela built the foundations for their future. Young Uhtred had begun to talk and followed around the Bishop Erkenwald the entire time he’d visited to witness how her maids had restored the mosaics upon the walls. Stiorra stood up for the first time.

Uhtred grinned, and pressed a joyful kiss to her temple. “And you’ve been visiting Æthelflæd often.”

She pulled her spindle up, the joy of their children’s milestones not as great as the fury that coiled in her gut. “He beats her, you know.” The words took all her strength to not spit out or shout with all the anger she felt. A mere child had been sold to a brute, all for the chance of a kingdom.

He knew very well who I meant by that.

Gisela kept spinning, though her mouth pressed into a line. “She’s bruised, and she’s pregnant, and he beats her.”

Uhtred had not known that. He straightened immediately, sky-like eyes darting her way instead of looking out over the river. South, towards Kent, though Gisela knew his heart pulled north. She couldn’t join him there. “She’s what?”

Of course he would be surprised. The marriage had only been a few months, long enough for Gisela’s own pregnancy to begin showing, but not enough for her to grow weary of walking and incapable of sleep yet. Fourteen years old, and already expecting a child. Gisela had merely been trying to hold her kingdom together, while her blood refused to flow. “Æthelflæd,” She threw the spindle back into motion, “is pregnant.”

Uhtred seemed to be swallowing air, his brows halfway to his hairline. “And he hits her?” He laid his hand on her thigh, well aware of the anger that coiled within now. Now he could understand why she made herself a pest to the lord of Mercia.

For just what she’d feared would happen to her, had come around to the princess of Wessex.

_Gemon he selesecgas_

_ond sincþege,_

_hu hine on geoguðe_

_his goldwine_

_wenede to wiste._

_Wyn eal gedreas!_

Silver flashed into her basket. Gisela’s song had sped up, twisting the song of loss into one that the men still found a chance to clap and stomp to. Dark eyes darted to the young musician, and he winked at her from beside the stage. She’d never thought her voice good, it was nothing like the haunting calls that drew cattle into the fields, but it was good enough for this lot. That was a blessing.

The vase had been her greatest treasure. The ruins outside Caer Ligualid had sparked an unending curiosity about the Romans, about the ghosts who’d come before. On certain feast days, she could smell the sweet drinks and dishes they’d once eaten. In the worst of her peoples’ famine, she’d used the thought of meals like that to keep going, to ensure that the ones most in need got what Gisela could share from her father’s stores.

Not her father’s anymore. Guthred’s.

Uhtred’s wedding gift of a city provided Gisela a gift of her own: a taste of Rome. The house they’d taken still had the insulated floors, where heated water was run through in place of a wood fire. Oh, her maids lit fires anyways, but Uhtred would sometimes find her lying on the warmest spot of the tile floor, a cat curled on one side and a couple of children on the other. When Osbert made her spine ache, heat was the perfect way of easing her pain.

Now, her back ached, and all Gisela could hope for was something to fill her stomach. Her vision blurred, and the poem neared its end. At least, neared the point that she ceased to remember the words. She refrained the first stanza, smiling brightly at the musician, and let the final note drift over the crowd.

More than one rondel of silver gleamed from atop the neatly folded clothes in her basket. She didn’t hear the clapping or understand any cheers for more, nearly dipped her head in the way Hild did before prayer and swept herself and the basket off of the stage.

The little girl was easy to find, taking away dirty dishes and half the height of everyone else within the building.

Gisela approached, her face warm after the light claps on her back and shoulders: congratulations from drunken men. She could pretend they were from Sithric, Osferth, Finan, the men who knew her well instead of strangers who had barely understood what she sang in mourning of. Crouching, she pulled out ten of the smaller coins, hoping they would be enough. “Beer and food, please.”

This time the girl smiled, quick to take the money and scurry off to fulfill the request. No matter the initial similarity to Stiorra, that very act of obedience made her very much unlike her daughter. Stiorra, a wealth of joy and energy, was always one thing above all: stubborn and contrary. Gisela had many a time jested that Stiorra would be the cause of all her grey hairs.

Now, all Gisela wanted to have her little voice shout “I am descended from Woden! I will not!”. She’d pout, and stomp around some, but enough soft words and a distracting tale would often bring her around.

Gisela sat once more in her seat, taking comfort in the way it creaked like her milking stool. She was sick with hunger and with sorrow, her stomach churning. Maybe it was the baby, for it too seemed to toss about and kick at her insides. One well-placed kick brought about a wince, and her hand went to her belly. Soft touches had always eased her previous children. This one was far more rebellious, and only kicked harder. She hissed, her eyes closing.

“Not yet, you’ve still got a ways to go.” She chided, as though that could stop a baby from coming. In answer, the babe kicked a few more times, though she was glad that after that, there was quiet.

Smoothing a hand over her stomach and loose coat, she pulled out her coins and counted them. Some were copper, most were silver, and one was gold, and all were beautifully marked with letters she knew and the faces of kings. One king in particular.

He was made up in an extremely Roman manner, with a crown of laurel leaves and a healthy double chin. His nose was aquiline, nearly blending into his forehead on some versions. A tumble of curls was the greatest deviation from the roman art she recalled, though perhaps they, too, were different in this strange world. Around his bust read the words: Dei Gratia Georgius II. God Bless George the second.

Perhaps even more important was the numerals. Alfred, ever wanting to make the past easy to access for those who could read, had made her ever aware of the year, though Gisela still counted the days in planting seasons and frosts. Still, knowing the year of something was important, for that could explain the strangeness of the world she’d stepped into. This was no parallel Midgardr, nor was it another realm altogether, for there were too many things unchanged in the geography. The year on the coin read Anno Domini 1743.

She quickly put the coins away, her fingers shaking. Two days ago it had been 894AD. This was a fate worse than death, and the nornir laughed from that place at the base of Yggdrasil where they spun the fates of men and gods. This was exactly the sort of trick they liked to play.

“You goat’s ass.” She muttered, though her grumblings had to halt with the approach of the auburn-haired girl and her supper. Gisela was glad, then, for the chattering of men that drowned out the majority of her words, for the child couldn’t learn any colorful language from her. “Thank you,” Gisela said instead, smiling as she took the metal cup and plate from the little girl. Her hands nearly dropped them, far heavier than the wooden or silver dishes she was accustomed to holding. These were a rougher, darker grey, and did not gleam so much in the candlelight.

Despite the weight, that was the most delicious meal she’d ever eaten, flavored with spices she’d never seen hide nor hair of before. It was with a full stomach and a song in her heart that she curled up beneath her shawl in the woods that night.

And thus, a new pattern was formed. Gisela drew songs from her past, much happier ones that she’d used to entertain the children with, to pay for her supper. Any extra coins she tucked away, for only the cruel nornir knew what came her way.

Gisela longed for the comforting smoothness of her runesticks. They were not her original ones, passed down from mother to daughter for generations until Eadred had tossed them onto a pyre, but they were ones she’d hoped to pass on to Stiorra, once she was old enough to brave the knowledge of fate. Perhaps with them at her hip, she’d have fewer things to worry about.

Instead, she walked all day, following the road and speaking to travelers. She forced herself to memorize the way they spoke, the queer words used that weren’t of the English she knew, and the slight differences in words she could recognize. Her head ached along with her feet by the end of the day, but within the first week, she had better luck conversing with people.

This was England, and the land she’d called home was a part of the single kingdom. Her brother’s legacy had been forgotten, but Alfred, the king that she had at times loved and hated, was called the Great.

At least some trace of the people she’d known was there. Gisela tightened her grip on her basket, the handle cutting into the tender flesh of her palms. At the last town, she’d bought another, heavier blanket to cope with the persistant wetness and rain of the summer, but it had nearly doubled the weight of her load.

She missed Strútr, the devilish mare who bit everyone but her and who rode so well on long trips. But Strútr, along with everyone else she remembered, had long since returned to dust.

This stretch of road was barren of life. No horses had passed in the time it took the Abbot Eadred to say mass. No people walked in front or behind. For the first time in a while, her dust-caked tongue was still for lack of people to speak to. Gisela kept up her brisk pace, for ceasing to move always made starting up again painful, but her eyes closed.

Birds sang sweetly with no mounts, carriages, or carts to interrupt their tunes. After the morning’s rain, the sweet scent of summer rose from the earth. Warbling calls brought music to her mind, though for the sake of the birds Gisela didn’t hum.

She opened her eyes to movement within the brush and trees. Forests here were rarer than she recalled, and less full of old growth, making it easier to see these things. Rough textured fabric adorned the faces of the men who stepped out before her, a knife gleaming in the hand of one of them.

Three dark figures before her, and the nornir laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm making this my nano project, so you'll have more chapters soon!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning in this chapter for assault. It doesn't go far, but it does happen. 
> 
> The baby is also born this chapter, but most of the scene itself is giving us some Aethelflaed and Gisela content like we all deserve

“Let’s no make a kerfuffle, lady.” The shortest of the men said. His eyes gleamed like jet. The knife in his hand flashed while he turned it in his relaxed grip. “Just give us the basket.”

Gisela pulled it closer, her eyes widening. “No, it’s all I have.”

“Wasn’t a question.” His voice lowered. “Augie, Cager, get her.”

She froze like a deer in an archer’s sight, while two men broke off and took her arms. Their grip was tight. Her heart raced. It was one thing to be brave when Aldhelm threatened, for she knew Uhtred would always be there to save her, another altogether to be brave now. But dinner, her survival, depended on what was in the basket.

So when the short man stalked forward, brandishing his knife, panicked eyes compared him to Finan. They were of similar stature, but Finan more balanced. This fellow favored one leg over the other, and his shoulders slanted one way. Cold steel pressed against her neck, but Gisela shoved one leg between his. She hooked the favored leg and pulled. The man fell. There was a sickening crack when his head hit the earth.The other two were too distracted to do much at first

One dropped her to check on his friend, and Gisela had her opening. She swung her basket at the other’s head, for the first time glad for its growing weight. It didn’t silence the man as her first blow had the leader, but he staggered back, giving Gisela all she needed: the chance to run.

She didn’t see the red pooling around the leader’s head when she stepped over. All she saw was the road ahead—freedom. She ran as fast as the baby and her exhausted legs would go. Her lungs burned as through they were going to burst.

The edge of the trees was in sight, and the men were shouting after her. But a force pushed her sideways into a tree, coarse homespun wool scratching her neck where a friend of the robbers, his face deeply tanned and his eyes cold as ice, pinned her to the trunk.

He didn’t hold a knife, but leveled a gracefully curved tube at her. It smelled acrid, smoke curling from the opening. But this was not a pipe. No, the robber already had one sticking out from between his thin lips, the bowl glowing orange with each gentle breath.

“Ah ah ah,” his lips curved into a crooked smile, “not so fast, little sow. See, now you’ve hurt one of my men,” he tilted his head back towards where she’d come from, where shorty still laid motionless on the ground, “And I think we’re owed a little payment, eh?”

Gisela’s stomach dropped, staring back at the man she’d dropped. A sharp looking rock was nestled into his head. His friends had left him, approaching with their knives out and masks down. Their faces were gaunt, these weren’t people robbing for no reason.

“Please,” she breathed, looking into the robber’s icy eyes. “Just not the basket.”

He looked down at her, his eyes raking over her face and body. With the loose clothes, blessedly, there wasn’t much to look at, though Gisela’s hand went to her belly out of reflex. Her last bit of Uhtred. Slowly, his lips curled even more, and he passed his club-shaped, smoke-scented weapon off to one of the other men. With the hand freed, he traced the edge of her coat lightly. He grabbed her breast, kneading it roughly.

“Shame you’re ‘boutta burst.” He sighed, “‘ve always liked german bitches.” Letting go of her breast, he let his hand slide to the center of her chest, where Gisela kept her coat closed with her shell brooch. “This is a pretty piece, eh boys?” he stepped away, angling it so the silver and gold could be better seen by his companions.

Gisela swallowed, unwilling to show her relief at what might’ve been the worst outcome happening. “It’s yours. Everything else I’ve got is fabric, I swear to you.”

He responded with a wolf like grin, quickly unclasping the brooch and removing it without warning. “Thank ye for the kind donation, little sow. We best be getting out of your way now.”

And as soon as they were there, they were gone. The ice-eyes man tossed her brooch up and down lightly, whistling a merry tune, but Gisela could only sigh in relief.

Her eyes went to their fallen brother, ignored in his motionlessness. She pushed herself off the tree, her hand holding the front of her coat closed. Clutching at the fabric kept her hand from shaking, while her limbs felt numb and distant. They were shaking too, but her entire body felt like someone else’s, and she was just borrowing it for the time. Her stomach was a pit of lead, while guilt clawed its way up her throat.

His eyes were already glassy by the time she reached him. His hat had fallen away from his head, while blood steadily flowed from his skull. Gisela turned him, and pulled out the rock. It had gone in deep. No wonder he’d gone so quietly. She found his knife, a few feet away from his body, and wrapped his cold fingers around the hilt.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—“ Her voice cracked. Fear had held her together, but the thin threads now snapped at the seams of her once ironclad composure. Gisela wiped away tears, swallowed back the guilt. “May you find peace.”

And then, because he’d been left behind and she did not know what she might need, she searched his corpse.

* * *

Her feet felt like rocks after that. It had been wrong to just leave him there, she knew, but Gisela could not pay a wergild. And so, avoiding his kin was her only option, and that meant leaving him there in the road for another to find.

Two days later, as far from the body as she could stand to take it, she sold what she’d taken from his body. He’d had one of those strange, smoky weapons as well, which had earned her a raised brow and a hefty sum of the day’s currency. With that and his knife, Gisela’s moneypouch was heavy, hung carefully between her breasts. The townspeople here were mostly farmers, though there was a small dress shop in the market along the more standard butchers and bankers.

She walked in.

“Ah, how can I be helpin’ you, ma’am?” The madam of the shop asked, working on pinning a back pleat to a stuffed, human form. Gisela tried not to wince at the memory of tender, cold flesh beneath her hands.

“I’m looking for…” she trailed off, not sure of the words, but there was no way she could have politely asked anyone what they were called in her travels. Those were not road conversations, hadn’t even been in her time. So, she gestured to her torso. “Support. Mine were lost.”

“Bodies?” The storemistress smiled, her brows rising beneath silver streaked curls. They were piled high on the back of her head and ever so lightly covered by her cap. Gisela had come to discover that her usual braid, so perfect for keeping hair tangle free and out of the way of working, had been replaced by a pin-heavy bun. And so, she’d adopted it, though in lieu of pins she drew a thread of wool from her shawl and used it to sew her hair into place.

“Aye.” Gisela nodded, “Something that could work for when the babe comes, please.”

And thus, the weight of her money pouch was lightened, and she had a sturdy, conical garment with so many cords in the back she hardly knew where to start in putting it on. Thankfully, the mistress had helped, laughing at the confusion written across her face.

“You’d think you’ve ever dressed yourself before.” She teased, and Gisela smiled, awkwardly. How could she say most of her clothes had no closures at all?

“It’s just a tad new, with such a changed body.”

Thankfully, it was easier than she expected. More comfortable, too. The extra lines of lacing provided ease for her belly, while the top remained tight and supported her breasts. No wonder women seemed so conical, with how expertly these were made. Her breathing was unrestricted, and her back felt supported for the first time since her pregnancy had started. This had to be the best thing after a warm bath.

“Thank you,” Gisela beamed at the aging woman, whose crow’s feet and smile lines betrayed both a hard life, and a happy one, “I don’t think I’d have managed without you.” 

“You look beautiful.”

Gisela certainly didn’t feel it, having skipped washing day to continue along her path, and with the blood now on her hands. Though she’d washed it away, she felt the life of that man in her hands still. She smiled once more as she paid, though it faded away as quickly as she turned to leave.

* * *

And thus, once again she took up her pattern, though the long days of walking were made far more comfortable with the bodies, as the shopowner had called it. As the days passed, she drew closer and closer to the home she remembered, though it was no longer called Caer Ligualid. The town was called Carlisle.

All Gisela could have asked for was a night of peaceful sleep. Instead, when her eyes closed she saw the man she’d killed. He wore a bandage about his head, and an eye had fallen out at some point, but otherwise he stood intact. When he turned to lead her away, however, the clothes of his time turned to clothes of her own, and his hair shortened into the curly crop worn by the man she loathed: Æthelred.

Gisela merely hoped he’d gotten his due, then.

The corpse of her foe led her through various images, none ever making sense, until

She was a day away from Carlisle, from her conversations with locals—every day, she became more confident with her english. People understood her better, and she no longer had to resort to using words from her own tongues to fill in for what she lacked so often.

There was one more hill, according to a farmer’s directions. One more rise before she could see the city. She’d been having cramps on and off all day, and so she put her hands to her throat, where her amulet had once sat, and prayed that there would be enough time for her to get there before the baby came.

The baby had other plans. At the crest of the hill, and far from the well-marked road, her water broke. She got one glance at Carlisle—large and seemingly prosperious, thank the gods—before the whole of her body tightened.

She groaned.

She’d been through this three times before. Surely the fourth wouldn’t be too horrible? It never got easier. Through tear filled eyes she found a tree to brace herself against. Her jaw clenched so tightly it ached, she pressed her forehead against the grounding scrape of the wood.

* * *

“Breathe,” Æthelflæd said, her soft hands wrapped tightly around hers.

Gisela looked through tear-filled eyes at the girl, the sun casting a golden halo about her head. Her blue eyes radiated warmth, and despite the slight quiver to the child’s hands, she smiled. Gisela tried to smile back, sweat beading upon her brow. “You don’t have to watch,” she said, teeth gritting. “There’s still ti—ah!” Gisela doubled over with the next contraction.

“If I let you go home, you’ll give birth in the middle of the street.”

“Better,” Gisela panted, “than under the same roof as Æthelred.”

Æthelflæd laughed, though her hand went to her belly, far too small for how far along she was now.

One of the princess’s maids helped her to the bed in which the girl slept, painted with green and gold with posters that climbed towards the ceiling. Gisela gripped the poster to keep steady.

“It shouldn’t be long now,”One of the maids said, lifting her drenched skirt to check. Gisela swore, her breath coming in short puffs.

“My lady, please, get some clean rags.” Gisela looked to Æthelflæd, who still held onto her hand. The girl’s face was paler than it had been even in the worst of her morning sickness, but she queezed her hand. “The stress isn’t good for you or the baby.”

They both knew that if the child was at risk of anything, it would have already occurred. She’d only recently returned from Beamfleot, after all.

But her throat was tight with fear. This wasn’t like Stiorra’s or Uhtred’s birth, she felt it in her bones. The nornir had merely given her three children after all, who was to say if she made it through this? It was too early for her son to be coming.

“Keep breathing, lady Gisela.” Æthelflæd smiled, her other hand rubbing her shoulder.

Gisela screamed.

* * *

Her nails split with how tightly she gripped the tree. She was letting gravity and the babe do most of the work, but once it felt as though something was emerging, one hand was down there, ready to catch whatever came.

* * *

The wailing came with a sigh of relief. Maids helped Gisela into a now unmade bed, so the precious linens of the lord and lady of Mercia did not get too stained with blood. A veiled, aging lady gently wiped the boy clean, and Gisela beamed at every inch of him—though small, he was perfect down to his little toe.

“Here he is.” Æthelflaed took him from the maid, and, while tiny limbs flailed as though to already fight whatever foes he saw, brought him to Gisela.

Gisela smiled at the child. Far too young to witness birth, in her opinion, but the same protection had not been offered to her either. Then, she looked over her second son, tracing the curve of his cheek with a thin, quivering finger. “He’ll be Osbert, as his father was first called.”

“Really?” Æthelflæd laughed, “Lord Uhtred’s name was Osbert?”

“Fa—“

“My lady,” one of the maids intejected, peering into Gisela’s skirt, “the bleeding.”

Gisela’s stomach dropped. Setting her jaw, she held tightly to Osbert. Worries swirled through her mind. What if this was it? What if she wouldn’t even get to see Uhtred’s smile at his newest son, who looked so much like him? Would anyone tell Guthred, or would her brother go on thinking she was safe and alive in Wessex? Would she pay for never bowing to Jehovah?

She swallowed, sitting up in the bed. Her mother was a witch, she’d been raised dealing with these issues and more. “Æthelflæd, hold Osbert please.” Sucking in a shaky breath, she turned dark eyes to the maids. “Which of you has the strongest stomach?”

The three women looked amongst themselves, before the elder woman stepped forward. The other two, their hair swept up beneath kerchiefs, carefully avoided eye contact with Gisela. She must have looked like a frightning witch indeed, still shining with sweat and bloodied, her dark hair plastered to the sheets.

“We need to ensure all of the afterbirth is out. You’ll,” Gisela glanced at Æthelflæd, wincing slightly, “you’ll need to reach inside and take the rest out. The bleeding should be stopped with a massage afterwards.”

She laid back, shutting her eyes. No matter what the nornir said, she would not go out without a fight.

* * *

At the end of it, Gisela buried the placenta and crawled over to where her baby lay. He screamed out against the cruelty of the world, and Gisela cooed at him, using her serk, the linen yellow at the edges and well-worn, to wipe the blood and everything else off of him, before wrapping him in her soft shawl.

“Oh, hush now,” She smiled, laying with her back to the tree. Her shift was utterly soaked, clinging to every inch of skin, and so was her hair and cap, but the world came into focus around him. Gisela adjusted her chemise and brought him to a breast, stroking the wisps of dark hair upon his head. “Guthred, that is what I’ll call you.”

He couldn’t protest, feeding greedily. Guthred had earned it, after traveling so far not only across land, but through time with her. It hardly seemed real, yet here they were.

With the sun settting the clouds aflame, Gisela looked out towards the city, where glass panes shone like gold and the river glittered between buildings.

“We’re home, Guthred. I must show you where your namesake lived.”

* * *

She rested that evening beneath the stars, feeling safe even without the protective armor of the stays and this time’s strange clothes. The dead man did not appear in her dreams that night; it seemed the gods had decided she’d earned her rest. Gisela had never been the deepest of sleeper, and though she was utterly exhausted, with no supper and all the blood lost, she woke often merely to hear her son’s breathing.

He was alive, and fate had lied.

She smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. Wisps of dark hair topped his head, but his eyes were as blue as where the sky met sea, as blue as his father’s. Uhtred might have wanted him to be named something else, but he already had an Uhtred and Osbert, she would have one of her sons bear the name of her kin as well. Though Guthred had disappointed her at every end, siding with priests and not her, she wanted his memory to live on still.

Her eyes closed again, and then the sky was light. Guthred fussed, squirming in the tight swaddling she’d given him—Gisela couldn’t have him getting tangled up, after so long keeping him safe.

“Shhh, breakfast time.” She smiled, and brought him close again. While she did that, she shimmied her shift from her shoulders , and checked the bleeding on the cloth. It wasn’t too horrible, a few clots and steady amount of blood. Nothing like Osbert’s birth. And once that was done, she dressed in cleaner clothes and entered the city.

Near the center of town, where Gisela remembered all of the streets, she found a place that rented rooms. Not quite the style of inn she recalled, since those usually were mere mattresses in the loft of a home, but true, dedicated rooms for different lodgers. After paying for the first week and meals, her purse was significantly lighter, though still of a steady weight.

Gisela unpacked her meager belongings, settling Guthred on the bed while blankets went away in the chest at the foot of the bed and her bloodied clothes were set aside to be washed—she’d have to find where to do that, next. But first, she took an apron and tied it between her legs, so as to not get blood on the mattress, curled up around Guthred and slept, truly slept, for the first time in almost a month.

* * *

Caer Ligualid wasn’t a very impressive town. It bore the scars of the battles that had been fought over keeping it in danish hands: scorched homes and fields, an outer wall in constant disrepair, and few arms left to spare for the able-bodied men. It was home, and that was what mattered to Gisela.

She’d been alone, afraid and forced to take on duties she was too young to handle, while waiting for a brother who might never return, when she turned to the runes. And the runes led her to Eadred. Though she never did convert, working alongside the church helped to keep the people fed, the town afloat and able to survive the attacks. Gisela had always expected the scars to never vanish. The faces would always be gaunt and nervous, waiting for the next attack from the Strath Clota or Gaels.

When Guthred returned, all of that changed. Of course, war was ever a constant in the scheming of men, but the scars began to heal. Pale timbers replaced ones too far blackened with smoke, and roofs finally had enough thatch. The pantries of all her people were full, and Gisela cried the first time people paid their taxes to Guthred, for their own supplies were full as well.

And yet, this town utterly shadowed the home she remembered. For one, it was nearly three times the size, both vertically and spread across the land. Squat houses she had to duck to enter now towered over her, and Gisela had to watch overhead in case of someone emptying the chamberpot.

Gisela laughed, pausing by a statue to look about. Children giggled, rolling hoops and playing with marbles in the street. Military men with their strange ranged arms and brilliantly scarlet coats marched through the streets, occasionally stopping to speak to a lord or lady they might know.

People were happy, thriving, and filled her heart with joy.

“That’s where the smithy was.” Gisela said quietly to Guthred, sleeping peacefully in her arms. The smith’s shop sat somewhere beneath a bakery now, where sweet smells wafted from the doorway. Her mouth watered at the thought of indulging in something less necessary, though her body needed something more filling than that. Her face had still been pale when she washed it after her nap. 

“And that was the hunter’s.” She looked just up the street, and beamed to see that, whoever ran the shop now, had at least stayed in a similar line of work. Now, there was a butcher’s shop there. If only she had a kitchen, or at least a hearth, she would’ve stopped in to see if she saw the traces of the hunter she had known in his face.

She set off through the muddy streets once more, pointing out the places she remembered. Ever she went, closer to the river where her home had sat. The home where she’d been born, and her father and brother had filled with poems and laughter. Her mother too, for a time, but the fates had swept her down the river quickly. She could almost see it now, standing tall and proud with its shingled roof and its painted dragons on the doors.

Gisela smiled, quickening her step as she neared the last turn and then—

A cathedral stood in its place, grey and imposing.

Uhtred had always said, we build things of timber and let it slowly sink into the mud, but never had it felt more real until this. Gisela stared up at the building, with dragons spitting water from the near daily shower atop the roof and saints glaring down at her. It must have cost a fortune in lives and stone and gold.

And she was just in time for a service.

Though she did not worship the nailed god, her brother had. Her friends had. And so, to at least pay her respects to them, Gisela would attend. She found a seat at the end of the bench near the back, and felt the eyes of the saints upon her in judgement. This was not a place for a sorceress, nor was it a place for a woman with the blood of men and animals on her hands. But there was no time to run, for the grand instrument built into the walls started with a song that rattled her bones and woke Guthred. For the entirety of the first song, she soothed him back into a gentle sleep.

While the preacher spoke, Gisela saw them. Ghosts had never been something she ever truly believed in, not in the way the saxons had. But she saw them now. Behind the priest her father frowned sternly, then, as if her mother had just cracked a joke, he laughed, his hands settling upon a belly grown round with wealth and age. His hair was just as she remembered, a mix of silver and gold that fell in light waves to his shoulder. His eyes, dark as the night, shone with mirth as he turned, gesturing and speaking wordlessly.

She sniffed. A dagger in her heart twisted when a young man ran down the center aisle. He looked over his shoulder, a devilish grin on his lips. The early traces of a beard were sprouting in patches all over his face, dampening what were features that made women weak in the knees. He paused, gesturing to her with a gleam in his sky-like eyes. His hair was cropped like a saxon’s, but about his neck hung both a cross and a hammer, and his fingers were adorned in rings.

“Come on.” His throat made no sound, but Gisela didn’t need it to read Guthred’s lips. Gisela choked back a sob. He hadn’t even looked this happy once after slavery. Sure, his eyes had gleamed and he had beamed at his wedding, but there were always shadows. Gisela heard his night terrors.

She should have never made him king. Hot, wet tears slipped over her cheeks and dripped onto her hands, and there was nothing she could do to stop them. Each inhale was an effort, thick with sorrow and choked by attempting to not disturb the service. No one needed to know of what she saw here.

A hand touched her shoulder, then wiped the tears from her cheeks. Ice-like and cold, but Gisela blinked to clear her eyes. A long, lovely face smiled up at her. Blue eyes stood out from her pale face with the gentle dusting of cosmetics she’d always favored, her lips slightly reddened from a stain of roses.

“Mother,” Gisela choked. She reached a hand out to touch her, but her grasping fingers passed through midnight hair pulled up and away with combs of silver starlight. She looked so beautiful, nothing like the gaunt, hollow-eyed woman she remembered. But it was her, it was her mother.

Reddened lips spread into a crooked smile. “Oh, look at you.” Rough, freezing fingertips tucked a strand of hair beneath her cap. Her voice was less there than it was a whisper upon the wind. “So far and so close. Finding the place of who once was your foe is for the best, you know.” The ghost bit her lip, “Beat the fire, then the witch will find the boar.”

Gisela’s brows furrowed. “You’re not making sense.” Then again, had her mother ever made sense? Nearly everything had been riddles, even in teaching, though the odd ramblings had grown worse, as Gisela grew older.

The ghost smiled, patting her forearm. And then, as soon as she’d been there, she was gone, and Gisela was once again alone in a crowd of strangers.

The place of who was once her foe…Gisela frowned. In later years, that had been Æthelred, though that was for the sake of Alfred’s daughter. She had spirit, and he had none, and the match would always be hell for the both of them, but worse for the golden princess. Men with no spirit were the cruelest of them all, as they’d witnessed.

But here she was in Caer Ligualid, where her foe had been one above all: Strath Clota. The Scots, as she’d heard the people of the day call them. If she had no place here, the only place she’d always think of as home, perhaps she would find some form of peace there.

Gisela adjusted the sleeping Guthred, before looking about. Everyone was standing, singing a hymn with all its syllables far shortened than what she recalled. The tune was familiar. She stood, slipping into the aisle and out of the door. There were preparations to make.


End file.
